Two pieces by Madeline Mora-Summonte
Tonight, the voices slither, settle inside her with a sigh.
She shuffles from room to room, knife in hand.
Blood patters her feet like rain.
Pink Ponies Dancing
Lipstick. Glitter. Heels.
Jenna plays dress-up, giggles, twirls. Her dolls look on, approve.
Lipstick. Glitter. Heels.
Jenna plays dress-up, shimmies, strips. Men look on, approve.
Madeline Mora-Summonte is a writer, a reader, a beach-comber, and a tortoise-owner. She is the author of the flash fiction collections The People We Used to Be and Garden of Lost Souls.
Five pieces by Suzanne Cottrell
Battling aphids and Japanese beetles,
Watering to overcome drought conditions,
Nightly arthritic aches,
She hopes for a harvest of fresh vegetables
Cosmetic surgery promising eternal beauty,
At what cost?
Exquisite black dress, garnet adorned neck
Misunderstanding, spilled wine, hurt feelings,
Cursed necklace of Harmonia.
Under the Twilight
Strolling hand in hand on Waikiki Beach
Crimson sunset, gentle sea breeze
Waves massaging our feet, footprints marking time
Wishing the night would never end
Cleaning, de-cluttering, organizing,
Never enough time or space.
Cinderella escapes taking only essentials.
Her new domain, four hundred square feet,
Enter at your own risk!
Office breakroom gathering
Have you heard the one about—–?
Uproarious, gut wrenching, knee slapping,
Simultaneous chortles, coffee spewed all directions
Hey, tell it again!
Suzanne Cottrell lives in rural, Piedmont North Carolina. An outdoor enthusiast and retired teacher, she now has time to pursue other interests and projects. She is a fledgling writer, working to spread her wings and ride the thermals. She particularly enjoys writing poetry, flash fiction, and creative non-fiction. Her writing has been published in Nailpolish Stories, A Tiny and Colorful Literary Journal; The Weekly Avocet; The Fall Avocet; and The Plum Tree Tavern.
Four pieces by Tyrean Martinson
Dear Mr. Fantasy,
I want …
Heart, mind, body, soul.
I have a basement waiting.
Don’t Sweater It
You know, he gave me the sweater because he loves me. I’m not making it up. I’ll wear it forever or until we break up.
Don’t Let the Dead Bite
The sign annoys me although it’s a stupid kiddie haunted house. We all know zombies don’t bite. They suck like mosquitoes and breed like rabbits.
We wear blue dresses and wave as cars pass by.
We know we can’t say goodbye.
We miss you.
My fingers bleed as I try to pick up the fragments on the floor. I can’t find them all before the nurses come for me.
Tyrean Martinson daydreams, writes, and reads in the Pacific Northwest. She can be found online at: http://tyreanswritingspot.blogspot.com/